


Blood of the Covenant

by animerag3



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-10-20 23:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animerag3/pseuds/animerag3
Summary: Simmons doesn’t know where to go.  He’s been wandering the streets, unaware of his surroundings, unsure of how he ended up in front of this shelter.  But it’s his last hope if he doesn’t want to sleep outside.





	1. Chapter 1

How was it possible to feel yourself course through a trough of emotions, yet stand afar and watch them simmer in a river in front of you? Simmons was engulfed in a wave, yet watching the hurricane from within the calm of the eye. Distant, yet immersed. Searing pain weighing on his body, static in his mind. 

He didn’t know how he found the shelter. There was no memory of him looking up the address. Of him walking there. Of even considering the possibility that they would accept him. Or the more likely possibility of it being full and denying him a bed. His mind was fuzzy, muscles tired, chest tight, but he was standing outside, staring at the entrance as if it was an abyss come to consume him.

Simmons was aware of his distraught state. Never would he willingly enter a place by himself where he didn’t know someone. He wouldn’t have ever conceived of such a thing. Yet his feet were dragging him in there. After all, it was that or the cold concrete outside. 

He tried the door to find it locked. That was it then. Last refuge, gone. He was gonna have to battle the cold and anyone who attempted to bother him. Simmons hadn’t cried all night. The dam was getting harder to contain. 

He turned around, ready to head towards nowhere when the door unlocked. “Hey!” Simmons froze at the overly enthusiastic voice. “Can I help you?” He turned around. A smaller man with a wide grin held the door open. Waited for Simmons to respond.

Nothing came out of his mouth. What was he supposed to say? The last few hours had been jarring and he managed to just wander to the nearest shelter he could find? He just wanted a place to sleep for the evening? His body was imploding and he couldn’t figure out what to do anymore? He just stood, staring at the man.

“Uh,” the blonde broke the elongated silence, “are you ok? Do you want to come in?” 

That was it. The one question that took away Simmons’ will power to stay in control. To keep himself emotionally distant from the situation. The wave that had been looming around him crashed. Tears burned his face. Simmons’ long arms wrapped around his torso as he tried to get a grip on his breathing.

“Shhh, it’s ok, it’s ok. You don’t need to talk.” The man gently grabbed Simmons’ arms, slowly pulling him inside. “Just come sit down, let it out.”

Simmons let himself be guided into the building, felt himself be seated in a nearby chair, vision blurred the whole way. It was pitiful. He was a mess. He knew better than to be a mess. No one liked messes. 

“I’ll be back with a hot drink and let one of the higher-ups know you are here. Will you be ok if I leave for a second?” Simmons barely registered what the guy was saying. He just continued to sit there, lethargic, stewing in a range of feelings he couldn’t name or comprehend. 

Time had passed. It might have been minutes. It could have been an hour. Simmons didn’t know how long he sat there alone before a hot mug was pushed into his hands, and an older man knelt in front of him. 

“You ok, sonny?” the gruff voice asked. Simmons just stared. No. He knew he wasn’t. But that was never the correct answer. Yes, he was. But it wasn’t true. He didn’t know the answer. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do. What was the right thing to say?

“He hasn’t said anything since I let him in,” the first guy responded. 

“Can you hear me?” the older man asked. Simmons nodded. He could hear. He wasn’t stuck in any kind of episode. There wasn’t a wrong answer here. It was ok. “Good. Can you speak?”

Simmons felt the shrug of his shoulders before he realized that counted as an answer. And how vague that answer was. “I-” he tried, but cut himself off. It took too much energy. He just shook his head, scrunching his eyes shut. His mind was collapsing. He couldn’t understand. Nothing made sense. None of this was supposed to happen. He shouldn’t have come here. He should be back there, back with him. It was his own fault that he was kicked out. Simmons knew that. He should have just dealt with the consequences of his actions. 

“Look,” the older man said, “how about this? I will put you up in my room tonight. Just so that someone can keep an eye on you while you rest. In the morning, you can talk to us and we will figure out what we can do to help. How does that sound?”

Simmons didn’t know how it sounded. It was too nice. He didn’t deserve it. The concrete was what he deserved. He shouldn’t have come here. “It’s too much,” he whispered.

“Nonsense, it’s the least we can do for you!” the younger man exclaimed. “You are distressed, most people that come here are! Get some beauty rest so we can turn that frown upside down!” 

“With that being said,” the older man interrupted the bright voice, “follow me to my rooms and we will get you set up.” Simmons obeyed, trailing behind the silver-haired guy. They arrived after a trek of silence, the man pointing him towards the bed. 

“What about you?” Simmons meekly asked. He couldn’t impose.

“Son, I’ve slept on floors worst than this back in Vietnam, and I'm a lucky enough son of a bitch to have a couch. The bed is yours. No complaints.” With that, the door to the room was shut, leaving Simmons with his thoughts.

He sat on the bed, staring at the opposite wall filled with photos. He couldn’t absorb any of them. He just stared off into space. Replaying the night’s events. How it came to this. Was it all over? Had Simmons really been in the wrong? Was he just over exaggerating the situation? He must have. Things could still be reconciled. Right? Simmons needed him. He needed Simmons. Right? 

The thoughts kept circling until his eyelids could no longer hold themselves up, his head hitting the bed as he fell into unconsciousness.


	2. Why Am I Here?

Simmons woke up to red. Everywhere. The entire room was painted dark red. When did their room get painted such a damning color, especially one his partner disliked? 

This wasn’t home.

The memories of last night came flashing back.

He sat upright, taking in his surroundings in full detail. Pictures of others, most likely the man’s friends whose room he was in, littered the opposite wall. Posters of Vietnam War memorabilia painted the other walls. He needed out. He didn’t know this place. He needed out.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be home. That was the only place he knew. He needed to go back. 

Simmons jumped off the bed, opening the bedroom door to a small suite. No one was around. Perfect. He would just do his best to head out and skirt around everyone. Piece of cake. Then he could work everything out. 

Just before he reached for the door handle, it opened. The silver-haired man stood in the doorway, jumping back slightly in surprise. “Well Almighty, looky here. How’s the young man doing this morning?” Simmons took in the guy’s appearance. Short, stocky, buzz cut. This guy screamed military. The tall redhead shrunk into himself. This wasn’t a man he wanted any beef with. And he had slept in his bed. 

The older guy noticed Simmons’ response, a faint crestfallen look appearing on his features. “Hey now, it’s ok. No one here bites. They are still serving breakfast in the mess hall. You want me to show you there?” Simmons was about to shake his head no. He just wanted to go home. His stomach answered yes instead. “I don’t care what answer you give at this point, your body spoke for you. C’mon. I’ll introduce you to some of the others, we can figure out where to put you up until you can get back on your feet.”

Simmons didn’t need to get back on his feet. He had someone that knew him well enough to help him out. His partner would take him back. They fought before. He had just gotten...carried away last night was all. He didn’t need to stay here. 

None of this was voiced as he was led to a cafeteria, tables lining the room and a buffet-style area set up at the far end. The place was filled with younger kids. Teenagers. Simmons couldn’t help but gawk at them. They were far too young to be here. They should be home with their families. 

He got curious stares in return, some less curious glares. Simmons looked back down, following behind the older man. He was the new one. The one that had never been seen by anyone here before. 

It just reinforced to him that he needed to leave as soon as possible. 

He didn’t fit in here. It was a youth shelter after all. The only older people he saw were huddled at one end of a table. And judging by where the older man was leading him, they were most likely the workers here. No, no, he didn’t need to be introduced to anyone. He was fine. Everything was fine. 

“Hey y’all,” the old man’s voice boomed over the group. Simmons flinched away, not wanting any attention drawn to him. Eyes rested on him anyways. “This here is our newest member. Found him last night.” The older man held out his hand to Simmons. “My name here is Sarge. Yes, that is my actual name. Sarge. Don’t ask if it is. Because it is.”

Simmons nodded. Everyone looked at him expectantly. Oh, right, he was supposed to talk. “Uh,” he muttered. “Nice to meet you. I’m Simmons.” 

“Sarge,” a voice whined from the table, “there is no need to go embarrassing people the moment they get here, save that for later.” A scrawny man stood up, holding his hand out to Simmons. “I’m Leonard Church, Sarge and I are in charge of the place while Kimball and Doyle are out.” He pointed to the two others at the table. “This is Tucker and Caboose.”

“Hi! I’m Michael J. Caboose. It is nice to meet you!” The giant man...holy crap, was he taller than Simmons?! The redhead instinctively took a few steps back when the man got around the table.

“No, Caboose, you can’t just go hugging people, we’ve been over this!” Church spouted. 

The guy - Caboose - stopped, looking lost and dejected. For a moment, Simmons felt bad for denying the guy a hug. He opened his arms a little. Maybe just to lighten up someone else’s day?

He regretted it immediately as the big arms came around his thin torso and nearly broke his spine. “You are a nice man!” Caboose said, making his way back around the table to sit in front of his bowl of cereal. 

“Sorry about that,” Church said. “He has a hard time controlling his strength and doesn’t always understand that not everyone wants hugs all the time. We’re working on it. He’s harmless though.” Simmons just nodded, still dazed and slightly frightened of the tree trunk arms that had just lifted him off the ground. “Anyways,” Church continued, “these two work as volunteers here. You probably met Donut, he’s usually up front at the desk, if not, it’s Tucker-”

“‘Sup,” Tucker interrupted. 

“Both complete idiots, if you have questions about the place, don’t go to them.”

“Hey,” Tucker exclaimed, “I have all the necessary information a person could want!”

“About what? Picking up chicks?” Church rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Not the kind of information people want when they come here.”

“Just saying, a little advice from the love doctor never hurts,” Tucker held up his hands. Simmons looked back and forth between the two as Church continued.

“Lopez is our cook and all-around maintenance person, though he refuses to speak English to anyone even though we know he understands us,” the bitterness in Church’s tone was hard to miss. “And Grif, who should be strolling in any second since today we have bacon-”

“You betcha.” Simmons jumped as he whipped around, a shorter heavyset man holding a plate of nothing but bacon standing directly behind him. “We get a new worker? Is this orientation?” The man looked dead straight into Simmons’ eyes. “I feel so sorry for you right now. If you want tips on how to sleep through all of it and look like you are paying attention, just come to me.” 

“He’s not a worker here, Grif. He’s staying like the others are,” Church responded.

Grif gave Simmons a look over. “Oh,” was all he said. Simmons felt his cheeks burn. Just another reminder that he didn’t belong here. 

“Actually,” Simmons finally spoke. All eyes rested on him again. He shrank back into himself, mumbling “I think I’m going to head home now. I’m sorry to bother you all.” Everyone was silent. Was that not a good thing to say? “Not that this wasn’t great, I’m thankful, I just think my partner will be worried, and I really should make sure everything is alright-”

“Simmons,” Church’s voice cut through the air. “Let’s go to Kimball’s office, Sarge and I will talk with you there.” Simmons nodded. They had come to the cafeteria to get food, yet he hadn’t grabbed a single thing to eat. He looked longingly at the buffet. It was ok. He could make it through a short meeting. An explanation. They deserved that.

“Hey,” the heavyset man tapped Simmons' shoulder. He turned around, the man holding out a few scraps of bacon to him. “I could probably hear your stomach across the room if I was over there, and you are a literal twig. Eat the damn thing before I change my mind and steal it back.”

Simmons took it, looking down at the ground. “Thanks,” he muttered, following the other two to a small office, munching on the dried meat.

He took a seat, Church behind the desk, Sarge leaning against one of the walls. Church spoke. “Simmons, I’m going to be blunt. What happened last night?”

Simmons sat there staring. “What do you mean?”

“There is always a reason someone comes to a place like this,” Church stated. “What happened.”

“Nothing." Church just kept staring at him, waiting for more to be said as Simmons fidgeted. "Honest. Just -" Simmons took in a shaky breath. Should he even say anything? These people did let him stay overnight without explanation, maybe they deserved one? "My partner and I got in a fight. He’s always nitpicky. But it isn’t bad! I’m usually good at paying attention to details!” Simmons' hand found it’s way behind his neck, slowly getting lost in his train of thought. “But I was tired and forgot what he wanted. He had told me I needed to focus, that my mind was wandering more often and I wasn’t spending time with him. And all he does is work to support us. It’s true! I was just more groggy than usual and so I accidentally snipped at him. He-” Simmons cut himself off. He remembered how hard he had been hit. How the punch had thrown him to the dull green linoleum tile. His partner yelling at him to get out. “He, uh, told me not to come back until I knew what my mistake was. But I do now! I swear I do!”

After it seemed Simmons was done with his rant, Church spoke up. “Simmons, I think it would be best for you if you stayed.”

“No!” He couldn't, he needed to go back. “No, you don’t understand, I learned. I have to show him I learned. I love him. He loves me too, he’s just not always the best at conveying it. He needs me. And I, I need him.”

“We aren’t forcing you to stay or go. That decision will be left up to you. But will you hear us out before you make that choice?” Simmons stared at the scraggly beard on Church’s face. It was a trick question. His partner always said people would try to break them apart. But the man’s green eyes seemed honest. Maybe he was just that good at being cunning. Simmons nodded, deciding to hear him out. 

“Good. Simmons, this is going to be upfront, but it is all I know how to be. You won’t like what I have to say. But I need you to listen until the end. What you just described to us, is an abusive relationship.” Simmons grit his teeth. He knew it. They were going to feed him lies. “I can already see that you are upset at me for saying that. But look at it from my view. You are telling me that your partner has told you countless times that you can only depend on him, that you need him, that you can’t do anything without him. That you, and only you, make mistakes in the relationship. He’s made you believe that you can’t survive without him. And I think, with the hesitation earlier that you made and the bruise on your face, it is safe to assume that he has physically hurt you in some manner.” Simmons’ hand shot up to his cheek. Had there been a visible bruise there this whole time? How bad was it? Did everyone see it? “Sound about right?”

“No,” Simmons said. Church raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “I mean - no! He-he-he loves me. He’s just trying to protect me.”

“By hitting you? And convincing you that only he can protect you?" Church sighed, looking down at his own hands resting on the desk. "Do you talk to anyone else?”

“I don’t need anyone else,” Simmons seethed. This was too much, he couldn’t take it.

“Simmons.” The redhead heard the tired strain in the man's voice. He could tell Church was starting to get fed up with this conversation. Simmons stayed silent. “I’m not trying to antagonize you. But I can tell you now, there is a building full of people here that in one way or another, would tell you the same thing.” Church leaned forward, his tone softening. “Listen, just stay for a bit. Doesn’t have to be long. At least until you have had a chance to fully think the situation through. Would that be ok with you?”

“How long is a bit?” Simmons asked.

“At least a couple of days.” Simmons grimaced. So he was a prisoner here for a few days. How lovely. “Grif has an extra room in his suite we can put you in since his sister moved out, I’m sure he’ll be happy to put you up while you are here.” Church, who had been rustling papers around the desk, looked back up at Simmons. “Is that agreeable?”

“Yes,” Simmons said. He wasn't sure this guy would take no for an answer. 

"I also think," Sarge spoke up, "that he should visit Dr. Grey."

Church's head whipped over to the older man. "Sarge, we aren't pushing him to see anyone. Let him choose that."

"Who's Grey?" Simmons asked. Might as well figure all of this out now.

"Our counselor we have on-call here. You don't have to see her if you don't want to,” Church responded.

"You guys want me to,” Simmons retorted.

"Just cause  _ one _ of us wants you to doesn’t mean we can make decisions for you. Besides, those sessions only work if you willingly go.”

Simmons fidgeted, kneading his fingers back and forth into the palms of his hands. He didn’t want to. He didn’t need it. At least, he didn’t think so. His partner hadn’t thought so when he had brought it up last year. The thought had lingered anyways. He wouldn’t have been able to see a therapist before. But he was here already. They were offering the option to him. There was a chance something was wrong with him. Maybe he could fix it before he left here. 

“Ok,” he said. Church’s eyebrows shot up. Sarge huffed in satisfaction. “I’ll go.”

“Do you want to? You aren’t just saying so because Sarge wants you to?” 

“No, I -” Simmons took in a breath, “I’ve wanted to before. It just - didn’t work out. If it is offered, I might as well take it.”

“Ok then,” Church responded. “I will talk to her and let you know what times work for her tomorrow.” He scribbled a note as a knock was heard on the door. Sarge stalked over to it and opened it.

“Hey, so uh, how do I put this,” it sounded like the man that had given Simmons the bacon earlier. Grif, he believed was his name. “Bitters and Palomo seemed to have gotten into an argument, and well, although they broke it off when they saw me, I think someone that actually sounds like they have some sort of authority here should go talk to them.”

“Jesus,” Church muttered. “The one time Kimball is gone, why is it always when she is gone.” He put the pen down, getting up from the chair and walking towards the door. “I’ll go see what I can do. Seriously, what do those kids have to fight over anyway?” He turned back into the room. “Sarge, can you let Grif know the situation. Thanks.” He left without even hearing an acknowledgment.

“What situation?” Grif asked, looking over at Simmons. 

“Say hi to your new roommate, numbnuts,” Sarge responded. Grif’s bored stare looked over Simmons once more. He got the feeling Grif didn’t want anyone rooming with him. 

“Alright,” Grif said. Simmons blinked. Oh. Well, forget that train of thought then. Maybe. “Just don’t eat my snacks and we’re good.”

“Ok,” Simmons said. 

“And you get to be honorary tour guide,” Sarge patted Grif’s shoulder.

Grif grabbed Sarge’s hand and maneuvered himself away from it. “Actually, Sarge, I think I’m going to go help out Church -”

“You were going to go nap, I know you better than that, dirtbag.” Sarge’s hand came back down on Grif’s shoulder in a vice grip. “Not today. Show Simmons around. Make him feel comfortable.” He let go of Grif and turned towards Simmons. “If there is anything you need, don’t hesitate to holler.”

“Ok,” Simmons meekly said. It wasn’t even ten in the morning and already it had been a whirlwind of a day. 

Sarge promptly exited the room. That left Grif standing in the doorway and Simmons sitting in a chair, not sure what to do.

“Well,” Grif gestured towards the hall. “Might as well get this started.” Simmons stood up, following the shorter man. Who decided that this was the time to go on an epic, nonsensical tirade. “This hallway was built in the late eighteen hundreds by none other than Alexander of Might. I hope you are writing all of this down, there will be a quiz at the end.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. The guy couldn’t see him. It was fine. He’ll just listen to his lunatic ravings and correct the guy in his head. I mean, Grif couldn’t even make up a decently believable historic figure to go with his madness. How lazy could you be? 

“That chandelier, in the lobby, was passed down through the Smiths family. A real treat for all of us poor folks.” Simmons mentally snorted. Wait. Was there a chandelier in the lobby? Did Simmons miss something? Grif continued. “You have already been to the grand dining hall, but we shall head next to where the real magic happens. The kitchen.”

“You couldn’t think of a fancier word for kitchen?” Simmons commented. He clenched his jaw shut. Crap, he didn’t mean to say anything. Grif whipped around. “Sorry,” Simmons muttered, eyes focused on the guy’s orange shirt. 

He saw Grif smirk out of his periphery. “Psh, no apologies needed here. We don’t apologize for anything in this building. Besides, I want to hear a fancier word for kitchen. What do you have?”

“Uh,” Simmons racked his brain for anything. “Cookhouse?”

“I wouldn’t say that’s fancier than kitchen, but I guess it works on this unbelievably boring excursion we have to endure together. You know what would make this better? Food.”

They arrived in front of french swinging doors, Grif busting in like he owned the place.

“No, saca tu gordo trasero de la cocina antes de comer el edificio,” an irritated voice barked at them. Simmons stayed glued to the doors. He knew when people were angry, no matter the language. This guy sounded pissed.

“Hey, Lopez! My man!” Grif pointed finger guns at the Hispanic cook that came around the corner, eyes attempting to shoot lasers through the orange bastard. “I’m just gonna grab a few pieces of jerky I know you have back here somewhere -”

“No,” a wooden spoon came flying from the man’s hands towards Grif, who managed to dodge it and grab the jar of jerky leaning haphazardly on the upper shelf. 

“No problem man, just taking this off of your hands. Good talk, Lopez.” Grif scurried back through the doors, Simmons frozen in place and staring at the cook.

“Estoy rodeado de idiota incompetente.” Simmons had no idea what that meant, though he could take a few guesses, and decided it was best to avoid this new danger zone by chasing after Grif down the hallway. 

“Anyway, so yeah, that’s the kitchen,” Grif continued, biting into a stick of jerky as if nothing unusual happened. “Lopez is in charge of it. Don’t get too far on his bad side, I’ve seen him get really pissed off at a few people before.”

“You mean having a spoon thrown at you wasn’t enough?” Simmons exclaimed. 

“Ah, no, he always does that, he always misses. It’s a great system.” Grif stuffed another piece of jerky into his mouth, his voice coming out more muffled. “If he throws his knives, you’ve definitely fucked up. No one’s died yet though.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a safe place!” Simmons nearly screeched.

“It is,” Grif reassured. “Like I said, no one has died yet.”

Simmons thought about the cook throwing knives with pinpoint accuracy. He shuddered. “Have the knives hit anyone?”

“Well,” Grif said, his voice wavering.

“Oh, God.” Simmons had been right to want to go home. He didn’t fit in here, and now he had to worry about maniacs throwing knives for sneaking into the kitchen. 

“Palomo had it coming, just saying,” Grif said as if that made it better. Simmons’ heart was beating frantically. He should’ve slept on the sidewalk somewhere. Saved himself this stress. That would have still been stressful, but at least it wasn’t...whatever this was.

He saw Church turn the corner and make his way down the hall. “Simmons,” he waved him over. Grif waved back, stopping when the redhead did. “Dr. Grey can meet you tomorrow at two. Is that ok?” Simmons nodded. Not like he had anything to do tomorrow. “Great. Grif can show you where her office is along with, well, whatever else he is showing you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Grif nonchalantly waved his hand at Church, though Simmons could see the curiosity in his demeanor. “Let’s go, before Blue here decides to drag us through another round of heart-wrenching drama.”

“Oh, like you Reds are ones to talk,” Church rebutted, though he rushed away, leaving Simmons to wonder what the hell that meant. 

“Always has a stick up his ass,” Grif murmured. They continued, Simmons settling for silence as he tried to keep track and make sense of everything around him. He knew he would forget all of this by tomorrow. His head hurt. Everything was entering his vision in a semi fuzzy state. Lethargic and tired, he was just trying to do what he could to stay upright.

“Here is Dr. Grey’s office,” Grif pointed to a door with purple streamers littering the front. At least he might be able to remember this. “Have fun with that tomorrow.”

Simmons eyed Grif. The sarcasm in his voice was hard to overlook. “Why?”

“Let’s just say Dr. Grey  _ really _ likes psychoanalysis. I avoid her at all costs. Too cheery for me too.” Grif shrugged. “But she’s good at her job.” 

He turned, walking a bit faster towards what Simmons presumed was the dorms. Or, whatever the living quarters were called in a shelter. After several sharp turns Simmons lost track of, they made it to Grif’s place.

Simmons’ new place. At least for now.

He entered the abode, a foul smell oozing from the room. “Ugh,” Simmons couldn’t keep his disgust hidden. “Why does it reek in here so much!”

“Oh, I guess I forgot to take out the trash,” Grif said, staggering into the place and collapsing on the couch.

It was more than trash. Candy wrappers littered the floor. Dishes were piled in the sink. Laundry was scattered on every available piece of furniture.

Simmons could not live here. Just standing in this filth was giving him high levels of anxiety. Oh no, what if there were roaches? 

“It’s only for a few days, it’s only for a few days,” he whispered under his breath. 

“What did you say?” Grif asked. 

“Nothing.” Simmons tried to avoid the minefield of trash, making his way slowly into the suite. “Which room is mine?”

“Over there. Just a reminder, snacks are mine.” 

Simmons snorted. “No worries, judging by the wrappers, you eat worse than any human I’ve seen. Besides, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.” He just wanted to lay down. All of what he witnessed was zooming through his mind. He couldn’t keep track of anyone or anything. Everything was new and it was terrifying. He just wanted to go back home to familiar surroundings. 

“Why is that?” Grif asked. 

“I’m only here as of now because Church talked me into it,” Simmons let slip.

“Really? It isn’t because the raging bruise on your cheek told you to run from wherever the hell you were.”

Simmons halted in front of his door, hand creeping back up to his face. He had been right, everyone saw it. “Is it really that bad?” he asked, turning back around to where Grif laid. 

Something akin to pity settled on Grif’s face. “Don’t worry about it, dude. Should be gone soon. Nothing none of us haven’t seen before. Put some ice on it, it’ll make the bruising disappear faster.” 

Simmons let that information sink in as he opened the door to his room and shut himself in, settling onto the mattress. It’s not like he had any belongings to unpack. He should probably figure out what to do about hygiene products. See if anyone here had any spares. But he didn’t particularly feel like moving. Every body part was heavy. Maybe he could just lay down for a bit, stare at the blank white walls until he could get a grip on his new reality. 

He heard the couch creak as Grif got up. Counted the steps he took towards the kitchen. He heard wrapping crinkle and flutter. Most likely to the floor. The footsteps were a bit uneven. Heavier than most people’s. They went back towards the couch and the TV flicked on, just low enough that Simmons couldn’t make out the conversation occurring on it. 

Eventually, a knock was heard. Dinner was going to be served soon. Simmons didn’t move. He would eat at some point. Just for now, he wanted to be alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm realizing this fic is taking me a bit longer to update because I'm trying to hash out a lot in each chapter without rushing the storyline, so I apologize for the slower update compared to my other fics. As a note, I have had a hard time finding out about what shelters offer other than housing programs and employment programs. I don't think they offer counseling, if they do, please correct me. I also don't think they would ask you what happened in your life to make you come to a shelter, that was more of a Church thing than anything. It's also been an interesting balance to make a shelter run by the reds and blues safe while also maintaining some of their asshole comments, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. Lopez's lines are run through google translate, sorry if they aren't actual decent Spanish, but then again, Lopez's lines never really were good Spanish XD hope y'all liked it! More to come!


	3. Floating

Simmons stood outside the door to Dr. Grey’s office. This was it. He had psyched himself out the previous evening. And throughout the night. And all day. He managed to avoid Grif for the most part. Couldn’t really avoid Church or Sarge, but that was that. Now he had to bring himself to open the door in front of him. He could do this. It would be ok.

The purple streamers floated across his face as the ecstatic voice of a woman could be heard.

“Oh, hello! You must be Simmons!” He closed the door behind him, greeted at the sight of a zillion books and a petite woman holding her hand out to him. “Dr. Grey, pleasure to meet you!”

She wasn’t what he had expected. Purple streaks showed through her brown curly hair, big round purple glasses covering nearly half of her face. She spoke at lightning speed as he was taking it all in. “I will have you fill out these forms real fast and we will get started! I love that you wanted to come to one of these so soon after arriving here! It tends to take people a while to come trickling in, but it’s nice when they take the initiative right off the bat!” Simmons looked over the confidentiality agreements, hoping they would be honored, before signing off and handing them back to the wild woman in front of him.

“Thank you! Please, take a seat!” Simmons did so, Dr. Grey coming around her desk to sit in the chair opposite of him. Nothing between them. It made Simmons aware of the fact that he was now exposed, with only his arms to block him. He caved in on himself a little. This had been a bad idea, hadn’t it? “Now, tell me about yourself!”

The silence seemed deafening. Simmons' eyes darted around, his hands clammy. She wanted him to talk. “Uh,” he muttered. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Anything you want!” she blurted. “It would be nice if it pertained to why you wanted to come in, but we can get to that!”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Shit, this had been a really bad idea. All you do at these kinds of sessions was talk until they found the problem. Too bad the last thing he wanted to do was talk about his problems. 

“Well then, how about we start most recent and work our way back. You came to the shelter a couple of days ago. Correct?”

Simmons hesitated. Had it already been a couple of days? “Yes,” he answered. 

“Where were you before you came here?”

Simmons froze. Somehow this conversation was already seeming to get personal without a personal question being asked. “Uh,” he found an interesting swirl in the carpet next to Dr. Grey’s foot. “I was home.”

“Ok. Can you describe home for me?”

That was a vague question. “What do you mean?”

Grey smiled at him, though it did nothing to make him comfortable. “What is it like where you live? Who lives with you? Do you have pets? What is your routine? Anything.”

“Uh.” That was a lot to answer. Did she really want to know any of that? How did it pertain to what could potentially be wrong with him? “Well, uh, I live with my partner. No pets. We live in an apartment complex. It’s nice and quaint. I-” what else had she wanted to know? What he did? “I dunno, I guess I spend my day cleaning the place. Fixing it up. Cooking. My partner likes the meals I make. He works a full-time job, so it relieves him of stress to come to a place that is clean with a meal waiting.” Simmons stopped there. That was his routine, he guessed. There wasn’t much more to add.

“Ok.” She jotted something in her notebook. Had he said something weird? “What are your first thoughts when you think about him?”

Simmons' stomach churned. The memory of the hit flashed by. It had been so jarring, so unlike what he had done. Sure, his partner lost his temper before. But it never resulted in anything more than curt words. He couldn’t really say that though, could he?

“You have hesitated long enough that I am pretty sure you aren’t going to tell me what your first thoughts are now,” Dr. Grey interrupted. “Please, you don’t need to hide anything from me. Nothing leaves this room.”

“It's just,” Simmons shouldn’t say anything bad about his partner, it wasn’t his fault after all. But it had been plaguing his mind for the past couple of days. Quietly, Simmons spoke. “My first thoughts were from the night I came here. I have better images and thoughts of him that would better reflect who he is. Just, that night, we got in an argument,” Simmons said, staring at the carpet and unknowingly transporting himself back there. “I had been spacey the whole time he was home. I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep. But I worked through it. Made the place presentable. He had tried to talk to me several times, but I just kind of hummed and let him continue. I was supposed to answer. I hadn’t given him an answer to anything. He, uh, he told me I needed to pay more attention. What had gotten into me? Did I even love him? Cause from where he was standing, he couldn’t seem to see it. I told him I was tired, but he got furious. He had just come home from one of the toughest days he had, and I had the audacity to say I was tired, despite being home all day. I must have been more tired than I thought because I guess I muttered my thoughts that housework took energy too and sometimes it's nice for the work to be appreciated.” The carpet got foggier. His cheeks were wet with tears, his hand coming up to brush them away. “I hadn’t, I didn’t, I should have, I didn’t think, I-I-he deserves, he’s right, I don’t know what I was thinking.” A tissue came into his vision. He was getting worked up over one fight. It was all so stupid. Maybe this was what she had wanted to see. How easily he broke. “This wasn’t the reason I came here. I didn’t want to talk about him.”

“What did you want to talk about?” Dr. Grey asked.

“I don’t know,” Simmons whimpered. God, why was he like this. Sensitive, useless, a burden. “I just, I know something is wrong with me. I can’t seem to make him happy. He deserves to be. I should be able to do that. It’s my fault. I don’t have something. I just don’t know what it is.”

The room was filled with only his sniffing until Dr. Grey spoke again. “Simmons, do you mind coming back later this week? I want to see you again.”

“So you agree?” Simmons muttered. “Do you know what is wrong?”

“There is no such thing as something ‘wrong’ with you. I would rather talk to you again before making any kind of plan or diagnosis, and to get to know you better. Will you accept?” 

Simmons let out a shaky breath. “What other choice do I have?”

“The exact opposite of what I proposed. You have choices, Simmons. You just have to make them.” He heard Dr. Grey get up and walk around to her desk. 

He’d been here for a couple of days already. He had hoped it would all be figured out today. He could go home. Show his partner that everything was alright. He must be worried over Simmons. He couldn’t help the words that tumbled out of his mouth though. “Yes,” he agreed, looking back up at the petite woman. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” She wrote down something on her notepad. Her serious tone was replaced by her chirpy and cheery voice. “I’ll see you Thursday at ten in the morning. Sound good?” Simmons nodded, blowing his nose and trying to dry his face. “And if you don’t come, don’t think I won’t find a way to hunt you down!”

Simmons left the office, paranoid that the woman probably wasn’t joking about coming after him if he missed an appointment. Though as he walked down the hall, heading back towards his room, his chest felt lighter. Almost like he was floating. But it was a nice kind of floating. Like his soul was on top of a calm pool of water. He wanted to lie down, soak in the feeling while it lasted. 

“Heads up!” he heard a voice yell down the adjacent hall. Simmons turned his head to see a blur of orange flying at him. His legs bent, arms coming up in front of his face instinctively as the object just grazed his hair. 

“Palomo!” he heard a girl whine. “You can’t justh throw objectsth down random hallsth!” 

“I was trying to see how far it could go without hitting any of the walls!” Simmons was staring after the bouncing ball, now rolling towards the doors to the basketball courts outside. “Sorry, sir!” the boy who had thrown it said. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, it just seemed like a cool experiment.”

“Uh,” Simmons didn’t know what to say. His heart was beating in his throat. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’m just going to, uh, keep walking.” He hurried down the way he was going, leaving the two kids to stare at him in curiosity. The floating feeling had now disappeared, the shaky remnants of an adrenaline rush coursing in him. 

He should have known he would get lost. After turning down a random hall to get away from the scene, all the doors looked the same to him. He didn’t remember what the number to his room was. A few more turns and he let his back hit the wall, the despair that had dissipated earlier now reappearing. 

“What’s got you worked up?” Simmons jumped. Despite the fact that Grif was a bit overweight, he managed to sneak up on Simmons easily. It just made the unsettled feeling in his guts amplify.

“I can’t find the room,” he told the floor. How pathetic. “Some kid threw a ball down the hall and almost hit my head, it just kind of shook me up for a second. Now I’m lost.”

Grif sighed. “Fucking Palomo, when will he ever learn.” Grif motioned for Simmons to follow. “The answer to that question is never. He’s lucky someone like Jensen is around often enough to save his ass.”

Simmons didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he kept his focus on Grif’s feet. Social interactions were never his thing. All he wanted was to lay down and feel good for once. 

“So, what’s your favorite movie?” Grif piped up, opening the door to their suite. Simmons looked up at the number. 117. He repeated it a few times so he wouldn’t have to go through this ordeal again. Then the absurdity of the question Grif asked hit him. He looked up at the man in the orange t-shirt - oh God, that wasn’t the same one from yesterday was it? Not like Simmons could say anything since he only had one outfit himself. Grif’s eyes narrowed. “I swear if you say Reservoir Dogs, I might actually murder you.”

Simmons blinked. “What’s Reservoir Dogs?”

Grif’s body relaxed as he brought a hand up to his chest. “Phew, ok good. So what is it?”

Simmons narrowed his eyes. Who asks a question like that out of the blue without there being an underlying motive. “Why?”

“Why? Cause I managed to get premium snacks from the kitchen, freaking Lopez was trying to hide them from me. I don’t know what to watch so I can pig out in front of the TV though, I’m hoping you have something decent in mind.”

Simmons wasn’t sure if he believed that, but judging from the horrid amounts of wrappers that still fucking littered the floor, he didn’t doubt the reason. Unfortunately, he never really had the choice in movies when he was with his partner. They didn’t watch anything together. Simmons sometimes turned the TV on when he cleaned, but just as white noise, never to watch it. “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I watched a movie.”

Grif tugged at one of his long curls, thinking. “Well, what was your go-to as a kid then? I don’t know man, you aren’t giving me much to work with.”

He wasn’t really allowed to watch TV or movies as a kid either. His parents figured it was a waste of time he should spend studying. But he remembered the days where he had subs or teachers that needed a day off and played movies to entertain the classroom. He had an undying fascination with anything that had to do with futuristic endeavors and technology. “Uh, the first Star Wars movie. The Episode Four one,” he said. It was a classic, after all. One of the few noneducational movies he ever watched.

The brown eyes just stared at him. Simmons wasn’t sure if he just offended the guy. He knew there was a debacle about it, some people didn’t like Star Wars. He didn’t just start some stupid war, did he? “You’re a big nerd, aren’t you?” came out of Grif’s mouth, a smirk plastered to his face.

Simmons sputtered, his mind halting at the accusation. “What?! What makes you say that?”

“The fact that you aren’t denying it,” Grif pointed out. It just made Simmons falter even more.

“Just because I like sci-fi doesn’t mean I’m a nerd,” he tried to defend.

“Uh, that is the definition of a nerd,” Grif retorted.

“No, that’s a geek, a nerd is-”

“Oh wow, you know the definition of both nerd and geek, you are really doing yourself wonders there proving you are neither.”

“Oh, shut up!” Simmons no longer had a defense. 

“Alright,” Grif chuckled, holding his hands up. “Star Wars Episode Four it is.” He wandered to the kitchen. Simmons didn’t notice any knife marks on the tan skin, but he doubted Lopez would have let Grif leave the main kitchen area unharmed with any kind of so-called ‘premium’ snacks. 

“What food did you get?” he asked.

Grif’s demeanor turned serious. “They are for me.”

“Oh,” Simmons let out. He didn’t know why he felt dejected. He was used to his questions being shot down, after all.

“Ugh, fine, when you look like that I guess I have to give you some. Here.” Grif threw a small pack of Oreos at Simmons. Which dropped to the ground. He never was great at sports. And seriously, this was premium snacks? “You only get that packet. The rest are mine.”

Simmons said nothing as he made his way over to the couch, sitting on one end and slowly munching on the sugary food. All he needed was the one packet, he already felt like he would get diabetes from what he ate. Grif settled on the other end, bringing up video streaming and playing the movie.

It had been so long. So long since he just comfortably sat and watched something. Simmons hadn’t realized how enraptured he was by the scenes, the dialogue, and the concepts until Grif attempted to speak.

“I never understood why-”

“Shhh!” Simmons exclaimed. He hadn’t remembered much of this movie and it was far better than his memory served. Except he realized he just cut someone off. That lived here. Whose space Simmons occupied. His body tensed. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“What did I say about apologizing? You don’t need to do it,” Grif said, keeping whatever statement he was going to say earlier to himself as Simmons let himself relax back into the couch, focusing on the battles playing out.

He was disappointed when it ended. He wanted to watch another movie. Preferably another Star Wars one, but it didn’t matter. This was nice. Just sitting and escaping the world. It was pleasant. 

“I need to go on shift, make sure Caboose isn’t trying to teach the teens anything bizarre.” Grif handed Simmons the remote. “Make yourself comfortable. Watch whatever you want, I don’t care.”

Grif left the suite, Simmons holding the remote and staring at the screen now listing several other movies, some current, some old. He looked back down at the remote. Thought back to the film they just watched. 

A smile formed on Simmons’ face. He couldn’t place what it was. He shouldn’t feel so good about lazing on the couch, stuffing his face and watching shit on TV all day. But he never really did so before. At least, not without worrying about other things.

Not that he wasn’t worried now. His whole life had just been flipped upside down. He was in a strange place filled with strange people that claimed they wanted to help while he hid from someone that could probably help him. Maybe. He didn’t really know. It was all too confusing. A headache waiting to form the longer he thought about it.

But sitting here. Transported to another world, with different problems that had easy solutions, or at least solutions that made sense. It was unreal. It was the best part of watching movies.

Reality sucked. Simmons flicked on another film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly late update! I'm a performing artist and this week has been hectic with rehearsals and performances. Thankfully, I had written a lot for all my updating fics, but I didn't have the time to edit like I wanted to. Hopefully, I will have more time in the upcoming week!


	4. Existential Questions

Simmons was only halfway through Episode Five when there was a knock at the door.

He didn’t want to answer it. But since it was the appropriate and polite thing to do, he paused the film, opening the door to Sarge.

“Good, it isn’t the dirtbag,” Sarge huffed out. “I just wanted to check-in and see how things are settling.”

Simmons rubbed the back of his neck. How  _ were _ things going? “They’re...settling. It’s going,” he decided on.

“Grif hasn't given ya too many problems?” 

Simmons wanted to complain about the state of his suite, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t do any good for anyone. “No, sir. He’s been good.”

The silver-haired man harrumphed. “Good my ass. That boy is only good for being a meat shield. But enough about him. Do you have toiletries and everything?”

“Yeah, I got it sorted today. Thanks.” Please, anything to make this conversation end so he could get back to his movie. 

“No problem,” Sarge said. A momentary silence passed before Sarge continued. “If Grif gives ya any problems, you know where to find me.”

Simmons nodded. “Ok,” he tried going back behind the door a bit more to signal that the conversation was done, but Sarge kept talking.

“And if ya, ya know, need to talk about anything, I guess, maybe, that isn’t a doctor or a scrub like Grif, you can always, ya know...talk.”

“Uh, thanks.” Despite the awkward air, Simmons felt a momentary sense of relief. This had to be one of the most oddly paced conversations he had since he came here. But Sarge seemed like his heart was in the right place. He could give him that.

“Alright, I’ll head off now.”

Sarge walked down the hall, leaving Simmons to stare at his receding back. He retreated into the suite, replaying the conversation in his head. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. Everyone has just been so...different.

It’s been a while since he talked to other people that weren’t his partner. It was...nice. Weird. But nice. He couldn’t explain it. Just that now he suddenly had the desire to go seek out company. 

He didn’t want to bother anyone though. Maybe he could go to dinner? Instead of locking himself up in his room like he did the other night? Yeah, that seemed like an option. Hopefully, someone he knew would be there. He finished up the movie, making his way to the dining hall at the appointed time it took place.

He saw the workers at their usual spot. Or at least it must be their usual spot, this was the second time Simmons had seen them there. He froze in the doorway. What if they didn’t want him sitting there? What if that was a worker’s only area? They didn’t let him sit there last time. Oh god, why did he consider leaving the room?

“Yo, Simmons, you look like you are about to combust,” Grif’s hand clasped down on Simmons’ back, causing the lanky man to jump several feet in the air. “Alright, chill, didn’t mean to scare you. What’s the holdup?”

“Am I...can I sit over there? With you guys?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s not a...uh...workers only place?”

“Dude, anyone here can sit wherever the fuck they want, the teens just don’t want to be near us, and the other youths do their own thing. If you want to be around our nonsense, by all means, feel free, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Simmons scurried behind Grif as he beelined it for the buffet. The redhead watched in awe as Grif piled all the different foods on several plates, balancing them precariously on the tray. How anyone could eat that much was beyond Simmons.

He took his plate of proportional veggies, carbs, and fruits available, following behind Grif and sitting next to him at the animated table. 

“Hey, look who showed up!” Church shouted over the ruckus.

“It’s the nice man,” Caboose exclaimed. 

A blonde who looked familiar turned his head towards Simmons. “Ooooh, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve seen you! I’m Donut! We met when you came in a couple of nights ago! I just didn’t get a chance to stick it to you yet!”

“Donut, just...no,” Grif rubbed a hand down his face. Simmons sat down in his seat, dumbfounded as he shook the man’s hand. 

“What? There’s nothing wrong with introducing yourself before a situation gets sticky,” Donut said, turning back to his meal. 

“Is Tucker joining?” Grif interrupted Donut from speaking again. Probably for the best.

“Nah, he’s at desk duty today,” Church replied.

“Less Blue drama, the better,” Grif quipped.

Church pointed his fork in Grif’s direction. “I swear, next game we will kick your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, you say that every time, but look where it’s gotten you. Three losses in a row.”

“Putting the Blues in their rightful spot as honorary losers,” Sarge barged in.

“Up yours, Sarge,” Church huffed out. 

“Now, now, no need for hostilities,” Donut waved his hands, attempting to simmer the argument down, but Church wouldn’t seem to let it go.

“Besides, you recruited Lopez. It isn’t fair,” he aimed at Sarge.

“Just because your cop-out sister and her friend that only swing by once every blue moon didn’t show up doesn’t mean you have the right to recruit our people,” Grif exclaimed, words getting muffled as his mouth filled with food. 

“Wash and Carolina are not cop-outs!”

“Dude, they kick everyone’s ass. All the time. They win with just the two of them on their own team. They shouldn’t be allowed to be on Blue team.”

“You’re just jealous,” Church sneered.

“Jealous of Carolina’s calves, have you seen them! Aren’t they fabulous,” Donut interjected. 

“Shut up, Donut!” Grif and Church yelled in unison. Donut mumbled something to himself as he went back to his meal. 

“You also have Caboose. Which is like, several Lopez’s in one. Lopez is ours. Even if we don’t want him,” Grif continued. 

“Escuché eso” [I heard that]. Simmons whipped his head behind him. The Hispanic cook was standing there, spatula in hand, looking ready to hit Grif over the head with it. Simmons instinctively lowered his head closer towards his plate. 

“Don’t worry Lopez, you have my permission to hit the dirtbag,” Sarge said. 

“No necesito tu permiso para golpearlo.” [I don’t need your permission to hit him].

“Stop joking around, Lopez. This is serious business!” Donut clasped his hand onto the cook’s arm, imploring him to see the serious side to whatever this argument turned into. The cook ripped his arm out of Donut’s grasp.

“Por favor deja de traducirme.” [Please stop translating for me].

Simmons took his chance and tapped on Grif’s shoulder. He had tried to follow this conversation, but he had no idea what was happening anymore. “So, what is any of this about?” 

Grif rolled his eyes. “Every week we play dodgeball, just for funsies, with those here that want to play. We have two teams. Red and Blue. Some of the teens join in with us. Some of them like to watch us adults pummel each other. The teens have their groups as well when we just sit back and referee. Though Sarge isn’t allowed to referee anymore due to his obsession with anything on the red side of the color spectrum.” Grif’s eyes widened, his hands grasping onto Simmons’ upper arm. Simmons tensed at the contact. Grif seemed to sense it and let go instantly. “We’ve got a game in a few days. Wanna be on Red Team?” he asked.

Simmons hummed. “Who’s on Blue?” he inquired.

“Church, Tucker, Caboose, sometimes Wash and Carolina, Church’s sister and one of her friends, though like I said, they should be their own squad. Red is me, Sarge, Donut, and Lopez, though Lopez is a recent addition only because we were dying with Wash and Carolina. You could easily replace him.”

“Escuché eso gilipollas,” [I fucking heard that asshole] Lopez yelled, heading back towards the kitchen. 

“See, he’s cool with it. So, Red Team?” Simmons wasn’t sure. It’s not like he was planning on staying here much longer. But with the way Grif was pleading, he couldn’t really say no. It’s not like he was ever great at saying no anyways. 

“Uh...I guess? I’m not good at sports,” he was getting ready to explain his countless failures when his dad signed him up for softball (because Simmons cried the last time a baseball had hit him, not that softballs were any softer going ninety miles an hour) when Sarge interrupted. 

“Well, would you look at that? Red Team seems to be better at recruiting than Blue Team is.” Sarge puffed out his chest in pride at Red Team’s sudden acquisition of Simmons. 

“Oh, c’mon Simmons, seriously?!” Church screeched.

Simmons faltered. He didn’t want to get on anyone’s bad side, he had just gotten here after all! “Well, I - I didn’t mean - I don’t know-”

“It’s fine, Blue team will defeat Red this week regardless, just watch,” Church said determinedly. 

“Oh, so does that mean you will hit someone for once, Church?” Tucker came up behind Church, holding his plate and taking his seat on the opposite side of the man.

“So help me, I will strangle you if you aren’t careful,” Church strained to say. “And why are you here?”

The rest of dinner proceeded to follow the same pattern. Someone mentioned something. Everyone bickered about it. Almost like the sitcoms Simmons would put on TV and clean to. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was quite entertaining to just sit and watch the clashing personalities try to communicate with each other.

Simmons excused himself from the table, Grif following suit. They headed back towards their suite together.

Luckily, Grif had more social skills than Simmons and filled the silence that would have hovered over them if he hadn’t spoken.

“So what did you end up doing the rest of today?” he asked.

Simmons shrugged. “Finished up the next Star Wars movie.”

“And?” he implored Simmons to continue talking. What did Grif want to hear? He hadn’t known the man long enough to figure that out yet. 

“It’s good,” he settled on. Nice, vague answer, couldn’t go wrong there.

“That’s it?” Grif asked in a disbelieving tone. Ok, so maybe the guy didn’t like nice, vague answers? “No in-depth look at the philosophy about good and evil? The faith in the Force?”

Simmons' eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Didn’t Grif make fun of him earlier for wanting to watch Star Wars? Now he wanted a full-blown analytical view of the film? “Well, I mean... it was obvious which characters were good and bad,” he said. Grif raised his eyebrows at the answer. “But the Force, I mean, how does one put their faith in something like that as fast as Luke did?”

He saw Grif smile for a second before his expression became more thoughtful. “Didn’t Obi-Wan or someone show him he had power? I mean, if you see someone moving shit with their mind, isn’t that proof enough?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like they ran tests on it or anything. And the only way to use the power is to have faith in it? Sounds more like a religious cult than anything.” They arrived in front of their room, Grif opening it and beelining for the couch.

“So I’m guessing you're not the religious type,” he asked. Simmons shut the door, meandering into the room before deciding to sit in an adjacent chair.

“No,” he bit out. He realized how that must have sounded though and tried to backtrack. “I, uh, I mean, I was forced to go to church as a kid. But the older I got, the less any of it made sense to me. Why would I think there was a benevolent man in the sky that loved and cared for me when time after time it just seems like the world is a vast punishing ground?” The harsh, cynical words had come out before Simmons had thought them through. “That wasn’t meant to come out the way it did, I’m sorry, ignore it.”

Grif shrugged. “I don’t care. So you don’t think anything exists?”

“Well, you can’t say nothing does, because the absence of proof isn’t proof of absence. But someone can’t force me to believe that something does exist when there hasn’t been proof that a god does. So, I don’t really know what is true.” He still wasn’t sure if truth was an actual concept or something humans created to make a logical system, but that was another conversation. He noticed Grif was just staring at him. Then, the realization that he basically just dissed on religion without knowing how the other felt hit him like a truck. His chest tightened. “Shit, I said all that without knowing what you believe, I am so sorry if I offended you, I don’t think religious people are stupid or anything -”

“Simmons, please for the love of anything that could possibly exist, stop fucking apologizing. And no, you didn’t offend me. I’m kind of in the same boat as you. Religious nutjobs are annoying. But to say nothing exists is kind of...depressing? I would like to think something is out there. I’m just not ready to take any sort of ‘leap of faith’. After all, that does sound very culty, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Simmons muttered. 

“But I mean, whether something does or doesn’t exist, it brings you to the existential question everyone lingers on, doesn’t it?”

“And what is that?”

“Why are we here?” “I mean, think about it. Are we just the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is there really a God watching everything?”

Simmons looked over at the tan man. Grif had a faraway look in his eyes. As if the question had been plaguing him recently. His eyes looked up and met Simmons’. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Simmons looked away. “It’s just...are you always this…” Simmons waved his hands in the air, trying to come up with the word he was looking for. “Inquisitive?”

Simmons heard the chuckle. He looked up to see Grif slowly bend over, arms holding his torso as his laugh got louder. “What?!” Simmons exclaimed.

“Nothing!” Grif wheezed. “It’s just...what, can I not be inquisitive?”

“I’m not saying you can’t be!” Simmons defended. “It just, it threw me for a loop is all!”

“Nu-uh, you thought I was dumb! You can say it!”

“I did not!”

“Did too! Inquisitive!” Grif continued laughing, Simmons sitting with his arms crossed as he waited for the larger man to calm down. After a few more hoots and deep breaths, Grif sat up, looking over Simmons again.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Those thoughts sometimes keep me up at night. I’d like to think we have some sort of purpose. A reason to be here. But it is hard to know what it could be. And every time I think I have the answer, it slips away.”

Simmons let his arms drop. He’d be lying if he hadn’t had similar thoughts before. “Sounds like life,” he replied.

“Yeah, it does.”

Simmons felt like he should continue this conversation. He wanted to say Grif seemed to have found a purpose here. Wanted to ask him what brought him to this shelter. Seemed like a good time to. But Grif had already gotten up from the couch to grab something from the kitchen, and the longer Simmons sat there, the less decent it seemed to ask. Before Grif could come back, he stood up. “Um, I think I’m going to go head off now, uh, but this was...nice. Yeah. Um. Yeah. Ok, goodnight.” He rubbed the back of his neck, turning towards his bedroom.

“Ok,” Grif said, waving over his shoulder. “Goodnight.”

Simmons closed the door to his room. Safety. There was no one in here in which he needed to get on the good side of. No one to impress. No one to satisfy. Just him. He let out a breath, walking over to his bed and dropping onto it. 

He wasn't particularly tired. His day had been long and semi-stressful. He would have to see Dr. Grey again after tomorrow. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If therapy sessions were supposed to be that emotionally exhausting, he didn’t think he would last very long in them.

Supposedly they helped people though. She seemed to know what could potentially be wrong with Simmons. Soon, he would be accepted back by his partner, maybe with the ability to make him happy.

Oh shit.

He should call his partner, let him know he was alright.

A small part of him thought what sweet revenge it was to keep his partner hanging. Especially after that fight.

He shook his head. That was a terrible thing to wish. There had to be a phone somewhere in this building. He could call tomorrow. He should. Before the man labeled him as missing and sent the police force after him.

It was always better to come back willingly to him than not. He’d heard what his partner was capable of from his coworkers. Better to not piss the man off further.

He stepped out of his room, heading towards the bathroom. Grif was laying on the couch, playing a handheld game. Simmons passed by, brushing his teeth and washing his face before he headed back.

He must have been more tired than he realized. The second his head hit the pillow, he felt his eyes slowly tug shut. He heard a few curses from Grif. Probably losing to his game. Simmons snorted as his mind drifted off.

A ringtone blared on the other side of his door, jarring him out of his half-conscious state. It shut off, replaced by Grif’s urgent hushed whispers. He heard the heavy man’s feet quickly stomp away, the front door shutting and locking. The comfortable air Simmons had begun to fall asleep in was replaced by cold silence. He was aware of how alone he now was in the suite. Simmons stayed awake as long as he could, waiting to hear the door open and Grif collapse on the couch again. His mind gave up though, passing out to the uneasy, empty feeling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much dialogue in this chapter, it feels like I’ve exhausted every way I could use a different word other than ‘said’ XD I’m realizing this fic takes extra time for me to come out with chapters due to the fact that it is only from Simmons’ view, so I can get a lot of different scenes done in one chapter, while my other fics each chapter is a different scene from someone else’s view, so they are shorter, but tend to come out quicker since they don’t require as much editing. I’m also realizing writing three Grimmons fics where I have Grif and Simmons interacting with each other differently is insanely hard to keep track of. One fic is fluff right off the bat, one pretty much hatred to friends to lovers, and this one just two people thrown together in this situation making the best of it. It's a lot! But I love it! More to come! 
> 
> Also, I am not a Star Wars fan. That part of the dialogue took me forever to write, and I turned it away from Star Wars as fast as I could and took a philosophical turn, where I am more comfortable writing bullcrap. I tried my best, sorry to those who are Star Wars fans!


	5. Bullshit

Simmons was a curious person. It often led to him getting in trouble. He had never been a trouble maker. But sometimes just asking questions was enough.

He wanted to know what the call Grif got last night was about. But he also knew it was none of his business. 

He could always ask Grif. But past incidents in his life showed that asking people upfront never led to good results. 

So instead, he took his annoyance with him to the breakfast hall, where he picked up some eggs and bacon and made his way to what he figured was his usual spot now. Completely missing the two new faces at the table.

“Seriously, Carolina, why are you making a fuss out of this?! Kimball and Doyle are just out on business.”

“You can’t believe that, not after how they acted when we walked in on them having a ‘meeting,’ in her office.” 

“Can we please talk about something else?”

“Couples gossip making you uncomfortable, Wash?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s making everyone uncomfortable, sis, I doubt Simmons wants to listen to this.”

At the mention of his name, Simmons’ head snapped up from his breakfast to see a petite, athletic, red-haired woman and a well-built, dirty-blonde man sitting next to her. Wait, when the fuck did they arrive?!

“Hwah?” Simmons got out. It was unintelligible, but the question was asked nonetheless.

“I’m Carolina, this douche’s sister, and this is Washington,” the woman answered.

“Like the state?” Simmons stupidly asked.

“Yeah,” Wash curtly said. The redhead man looked down into the coffee cup he was holding. In one sentence he was able to get someone to hate him. Had to be a new record.

“I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you were adopted and actually Simmons’ sister, the red hair and green eyes, you guys look way more related than we do.”

Simmons didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t a compliment, nor an insult. At least he didn’t think it was either. Why was he terrible at social interactions?

“What, don’t want to be related to the women’s champion MMA star?”

“Not really. Means I get beat up more often than most siblings.”

Carolina scoffed at the remark. “So, how have things been holding up here?”

“Not bad. Though it's been getting harder to support. That’s why Kimball and Doyle left for the week. Trying to plea that this place is useful and to continue receiving funding. Maybe squeeze a bit more out of the government pricks,” Church stated, stabbing his fork into the potatoes rolling around on his plate.

“Hm,” was the only thing that came out of Carolina’s mouth. The table fell silent.

Simmons hurriedly ate his breakfast. Something about this whole conversation made him feel like he shouldn’t be listening to it. It was obvious the new faces...or at least new to Simmons...thought he was a worker, privy to information about how the shelter was run. He got up from the table, excusing himself as he threw out his plate and made his way to...who knows where.

He didn’t want to go back to his room. He was used to being alone. But, more and more, it seemed like being alone meant being trapped in a whirlwind of overwhelming thoughts and decisions he would need to make.

Decision making wasn’t his forte. So instead, he non-decidingly wandered the halls, double-checking each corner to make sure another ball didn't come zooming out at him. 

He passed by a room with glass doors. A rec room. Several teenagers were batting ping pong balls towards each other, and another group sat huddled around a table playing a card game, grim expressions on their faces. Simmons was about to continue his meandering when a familiar sight of curly brown hair caught his attention.

Grif was in there playing cards with the group.

Could he go in and watch? The game looked intense. He wasn’t sure how the other youths would react. Simmons had only been here for a few days. Would it be weird to just go in and watch?

He must have already been attracting attention standing there because Grif looked up from the cards in his hand and waved at Simmons to come in. The rest of the group was staring at him now. He couldn’t just run. That would look stupid. But it was all he wanted to do now.

Instead, he opened the door, shuffling in. 

“Hey Simmons, what’s up? You wanna join?” Grif asked, scooting over so Simmons could sit next to him.

He took the seat. So many eyes were on him. Not all looked friendly. He looked down at the table. “Uh, I’ll just watch,” he mumbled. 

“Fine by me,” Grif said. “Bitters, we left off with you.”

“Three fours,” the sandy brown-haired kid across the table put down three cards from his hand.

“Bullshit,” a teen with short black hair exclaimed. Wait, was that the one that threw the ball at him earlier?

“Take it,” Bitters replied, holding his head up in one of his hands, not even bothering to look at the whimpering face of the kid that took all the cards in the middle.

“You really do suck at this, Palomo,” Grif quipped.

“He hasn’t lied this whole round, I don’t understand how someone couldn’t! They have to at some point, don’t they?”

“Maybe I’m just lucky,” Bitters snarkily responded. 

“Tch,” Palomo stared at the growing pile in his hands, sorting through them.

“Two fives.” The next teen put down two cards.

“Bullshit, Matthews,” Grif didn’t look up from the cards in his hand. “You need to learn to lie better.”

“Yes, sir,” Matthews dejectedly put the two cards back into his hand. 

“Four sixes,” Palomo put four cards in the middle. No one challenged him. He sighed. “Of course, only I would have all the sixes.”

“One stheven,” the girl sitting next to Simmons put a card down. No one challenged her.

“One eight,” Grif threw a card in the pile.

Everyone stared at Grif.

“Andersmith, it’s your turn,” Grif egged on. His voice was a tad higher than usual, the words spoken quickly. Usual tells of someone lying. At least, to those who believe in those things. Most people just did nervous ticks when they were, you know, nervous. Not necessarily because they were lying. 

“We are collectively trying to figure out if we should bullshit you or not,” the blonde next to Grif replied. It stayed silent.

“Oh c’mon, someone say it or just throw the next batch of cards in, Andersmith, it isn’t that hard!”

“Bullshit!” Andersmith yelled.

“Ha!” Grif flipped his card over to show an eight of hearts. “Take it, kid!”

Andersmith grumbled as he took the small pile in the center. The game seemed simple enough, though Simmons decided to ask about it anyway. He was sure he was missing some other rules.

“How do you play this?” he whispered to Grif.

Grif stared at him, bewildered. “You never played ‘Bullshit’ before?” Everyone at the table stared at Simmons. 

He shook his head, eyes finding their way back to the table.

“It’sth easthy!” the girl next to him responded. “You justh figure out if the person putting cardths in the center isth lying!”

Simmons had already picked up on that part. Was that it?

“Basically,” Bitters across the table decided to pipe in, “since no one else will explain, we pass out all the cards in the beginning so everyone has an even amount. Whoever has the ace of spades starts by putting it face up in the center. Then it goes clockwise. Or counterclockwise, doesn’t matter. The person next to the ace of spades puts down how many twos they have. If they don’t have any twos, they lie and say they do. It is up to everyone else to determine if they lied or not. Then the next person puts down threes, next one fours, etc. The goal is to get rid of all of your cards. If you lie and someone calls you on it, you take all the cards in the center.”

“Obviously, there’s strategy to it,” Grif said. “For example, it is kind of hard to lie about having four twos if you don’t, because someone clearly has at least one and will call you out on it.”

“That’s just called not being an idiot,” Bitters responded, pointedly looking at Palomo.

“So that’s the rules,” Grif clapped his hands together. “You watched as well, so you get the pacing. Wanna join?”

“Uh,” Simmons wrung his hands.

“We aren’t done with this game yet, though!” Andersmith whined.

“Dude, it would be done next round, I would get ace and I have one ace which means I would have won.” Grif held up his one card, flipping it around for everyone to see. They counted the number of people at the table and groaned when they realized it was true.

“Also,” Bitters said as the cards got passed to him for shuffling. “Grif tends to win this game a little too often. So the more likely you can get him to lose, the better for all of us.”

“Sore loser, much?” Grif snarked.

“You have no idea,” Bitters muttered.

The cards got passed around the table. When they could pick them up, Simmons hesitantly looked at his. It would probably be best to order them if they were going around in an orderly fashion. He saw everyone else taking a moment to sort theirs too. Made sense. 

“Everyone ready?” Bitters asked.

“Yeah,” a few responded. Simmons nodded.

“Alright, who has the ace of spades?”

Palomo sighed. “I do,” he said, flipping it up.

“One two,” the girl next to him said, putting a card down. Simmons only had two twos, so there was a chance she wasn’t lying. 

Luckily, he had one three himself. He was shaky and nervous, but he didn’t have to worry about his voice cracking as he put his card down. “One three,” he said.

It was Grif’s turn. He hadn’t put anything down. Simmons turned his head to see the tan man looking directly at his face. Simmons caved in on himself. He hadn’t been lying. But he had been accused of lying about stuff that was true in the past. He must just have one of those faces that said everything was his fault. The hunched back and tense neck was probably making things worse for him. 

“Two fours,” Grif said, putting two cards down on the table. Simmons let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. 

“One five,” Andersmith said.

“Peanut butter,” Grif sang. Everyone groaned at the table. “Oh yeah,” he turned towards Simmons. “If you lie and the next person puts their card down, you can say peanut butter to indicate you did. Makes for some great reactions. And no one can call you out on that lie once the next person makes their move.”

“Bullshit,” Bitters responded.

“What do you mean ‘bullshit’?” Grif asked. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“Not to you, dumbass, to Andersmith,” Bitters replied.

“Oh,” Grif bent his head back over his cards.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Bitters?” Andersmith challenged.

“One hundred percent, take the pile,” Bitters said.

Andersmiths face wrinkled in annoyance, taking the pile in the center of the table.

The game continued. Simmons managed to get away with each lie he said, though not without Grif looking him over every single time, lie or not. He had the feeling Grif was just using this round to figure out his giveaways. Joke was on him. Simmons could fake them. Causing several of the other teenagers to call ‘bullshit’ on him when he had, in fact, not lied. He shouldn’t have been proud. But it was hard not to feel an overwhelming sense of joy when both he and Grif were down to two cards in their hands.

The only problem was, he knew for a fact he didn’t have an eight. And more likely than not, they knew he couldn’t possibly have an eight in his hand without having miraculous luck. 

So despite the fact that he hadn’t called ‘bullshit’ on anyone yet, he felt that he needed to on Jensen just to give him the upper hand. Besides, she was less likely to have sevens than say, Palomo, who just put down four sixes again. 

“One stheven,” she threw a card in. It was safe. Both of Simmons’ cards were sevens. He didn’t have enough proof to claim bullshit on her. But the pile had grown big. Either he called it and she got it, or they called it on him and he got it. Or she was right and he got it regardless.

“Bullshit,” he said, taking the less risky move.

“Ooooooh,” Palomo shouted. “The new guy throwing in shade!”

“Stheriousthly?!” Jensen exclaimed. Simmons tensed. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. It was just a game. Right? Had he messed up? Jensen collected the cards in the middle, a ball of guilt resting in his gut. 

“One eight,” he said meekly, sliding the card towards the middle.

“Bullshit,” Grif called out. Simmons’ hand hadn’t let go of the card yet. He slid it back towards himself, staring at the two sevens in his hand, wondering how in hell he was going to be able to get rid of them convincingly. 

Seemed like Grif had finally figured out what was fake lying and what was real. Not that Simmons had put much effort in that time. 

“Two nines,” Grif put his last cards in the middle.

Bitters sighed. “Bullshit,” he claimed.

“Take them and weep, suckers.”

Simmons looked at the two nines that Grif had flipped over. The other teens dropped their cards, exasperated that the heavyweight man once again won. What kind of luck did this guy have? Every time he got the last card, he managed to have the one he needed. There had to be some sort of cheating going on. No one got lucky twice in a row. 

“Well, it was fun playing with you losers, but I’m off to bigger, better things in life,” Grif stood up, indicating that the game was over.

“You mean to go hide from Sarge and take a nap,” Bitters accused.

“Of course, what else would that mean.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, heading over to the doors. He turned his head over his shoulder. “Coming, Simmons?”

Simmons snorted. “Why would I go with you if you are taking a nap?”

Grif’s eyes widened in mocking disbelief. “Do you _really_ want to hang out with these guys?”

“Oh c’mon, we aren’t that bad!” Palomo whined. 

“Uh,” Simmons shuffled out of his seat. Not that he didn’t like the teens. But they were teens. And the glare Bitters sent to him had him tripping over his feet as he followed Grif out of the room. “I-uh, I’m just going to, go, somewhere.”

The door closed behind him. Grif snickered. “Smooth, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” The shorter man shook his head, Simmons huffing at the inevitably embarrassing exit he just made. Leave it up to him to make everything in his life look like it took twice the effort to do. Sometimes he was surprised he was able to breathe without choking.

The card game replayed through his mind as they walked down the hall. It bugged him that Grif had been able to read him in such a small amount of time. Simmons knew how to keep to himself. Knowing that someone else could see through him was irking him. “So, how did you know?” he asked.

“Know what?”

Simmons clenched his jaw. He hadn't meant to vocalize the question. Yet, it had already been thrown out there. Might as well see if he got an answer. “That I lied on the last one? You didn’t call bullshit on me before that, yet you kept staring at me, so I figured, you know, you figured it out. What did I do?”

Grif shrugged his shoulders. “In all honesty, it wasn’t any sort of physical giveaway. At least not at first. I just realized what your strategy was. And how you reacted when it went the way it did.”

Simmons frowned, staring at his feet as one passed in front of the other. “What strategy?”

“You called Jensen out so she would get the cards. Meant you didn’t think you could pull off lying. Then when she got upset, you looked guilty. You had planned for her to get the cards, yet you felt bad about what you did. Ergo, you didn’t have the card you needed.” Simmons stood stunned as Grif unlocked their door and beelined it, once again, for the couch. The man was observant. Simmons would have to be wary of that. “But great plan regardless. I will say, kinda bummed I can’t figure out when you’re lying. The teens are easier to read. They don’t have as much life experience in covering up stuff.”

The redhead felt his chest tighten at those words, eyes narrowing at the couch. “What are you implying?”

The disembodied voice carried into the kitchen. “I’m not implying anything. Adults are just better at lying than kids.” 

Simmons thought about that. He guessed in some aspects that was true. Life experience in lying helped. Though he always found kids could get away with more than what adults thought. Almost seemed as though adults forgot what it was like when they were kids. Maybe they did. Simmons remembers. He wasn’t much different then than he is now. He just knows more. Which he’s slowly realized is a curse more than a blessing. There is something to be said about the saying ‘ignorance is bliss.’ His brain never was able to receive that message though. It always wanted to learn more, know more. It had to. He had learned if you were to be rewarded, you had to know what others wanted. That’s how the world works. Otherwise, you got detention. Or, you know, kicked out of your house. 

His mind faltered back to the phone call he heard Grif take yesterday. The rushed footsteps out of their room. Too bad his mind didn’t know the definition of ignorance. 

“Uh," he walked around to the other side of the couch, "I know its probably not something I should ask about, but uh, I couldn’t help but notice that...um...you, you seemed distressed last night? After a call? I think?” Grif grimaced. Shit, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything. “Nevermind, forget it, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“No, no, I’m not upset at you. It was just...rough, last night.” He raked a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and sighing. “I was on call. Which means if an emergency happens here, the assigned ‘on-call’ phone goes off, and we have to answer to it. One of the teens - they - uh - they weren’t - uh - doing well. Mentally. We got it figured out. But, it was rough.”

Simmons stared at the coffee table, the faces of the kids from earlier flashing through his mind. “Was it one of the ones who played with us today?”

“I’m not allowed to say who it was or what it was about. You know, discretion and stuff," Grif quickly said.

“Oh, right, sorry.” He had been an idiot for even asking. None of this was his business. He had just come here on a whim, and now he was getting involved in other's lives. “At least they have people here to help them.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Grif sat up, staring at his own hands. Simmons began to back-up towards his room. There was no comfortable way to end this conversation, he just needed to leave. Until Grif's voice cut through the air. “You wanna get out of here? Grab something to eat that isn’t cafeteria food?” His pleading eyes startled Simmons out of his retreat. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, hamburgers, pizza, donuts, fucking anything. Why not?”

“I don’t think I have the funds for that at the moment," Simmons tried to say, but Grif waved his hands as he stood up.

“No one that comes here does, I got it, don’t worry.”

Simmons' eyes widened in disbelief. “You?”

“What, you think I’m a freeloader?”

“I never said that!”

“You implied it though.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Face it, you think I’m here just for the bed and food.”

“Of course you aren’t.” Simmons didn't know where this was going, he had just wanted to know about the call and now he was getting bombarded with this? What did he do to deserve-

“Eh, I am.”

Simmons' thoughts screeched to a halt. “Wait, what?!”

Grif shrugged his shoulders like that wasn't an offensive answer to everyone that resided here. “What other jobs would give you this?”

Simmons flailed his arms around looking for an answer. “I don’t know, don’t some performing jobs offer housing?”

Grif scoffed. “You gotta have skill and work ethic to do that, I ain’t about to do any of that. Now food! Pick!”

Simmons' didn't know what option Grif wanted. Did he like pizza more than hamburgers? Other way around? What should he pick?! “I don’t know! It’s been a while since I ate pizza -”

A dramatic gasp escaped from the heavier set man. “Oh dude, fucking pizza it is then!”

The bundle of nerves making Simmons sweat wasn’t a particularly motivating factor to go out. But he wasn’t about to deny it when Grif seemed head over heels for melted cheese on dough. To each his own, he guessed, as he was dragged out of the suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing takes so long and I can't always stand to reread what I wrote, here is the next chapter. They will probably come out in longer intervals than what I started with, I've been hella busy and haven't been able to work on any of my pieces for long.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this idea lingering in my head a bit about Simmons going to an LGBT Youth Shelter, it’s just taken me a bit to know how to set up the story and where to take it. While I have been researching into homelessness and shelters and how they work, this fic is not going to be too realistic when it comes to them, partly because I haven’t been in one, and partly because of how they tend to run. You are often put on a waitlist to just get a bed, most likely sharing a suite or room with someone unless you have kids. I highly doubt anyone would do what I have Sarge doing in this fic, just offering someone that didn’t say anything a room since that can be cause for an unwarranted situation, namely if they just let in an abuser. But with how the characters developed in the canonical show, it just seemed best to write this scene this way. Let me know if it is insensitive or anything to write situations that wouldn’t happen in this kind of scenario, I’m all ears on how to improve!
> 
> I kind of based the title off of the saying “blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” except I realize that there is no family in this story, so the point of the saying here is a bit moot, but still, the reds and blues are an adorable, protective family, even if they aren’t related through ‘water of the womb’. And the title sounds dope in my opinion XD


End file.
